Fly Away
by angiewinstr
Summary: Sherlock finds an abused John who is four or so and adopts him. (Title based off of the song It's About Time)
1. Chapter 1

Biting wind stung Sherlock's exposed face, his coat billowing out behind him. He stood straight and imposing, head bent slightly forward, hands thrusted deep into his pockets, shoulders hunched. He clenched his teeth in annoyance and glared angrily at the tarnished brass door knocker. A heavy dent dug into the door under the knocker. Obviously, someone with anger issues lived here or visited often.

Sherlock waited a few more seconds before abruptly turning. No one had answered the door when he had knocked the first, second, or third time. He couldn't explain why he even had come to this house. Earlier that morning, a mysterious caller had phoned and given him an address telling him to go there to fix a problem and then hung up. Usually, Sherlock would dismiss the call with annoyance, but a he felt an inexplicable need to visit the address.

Sherlock walked down the five steps leading away from the apartment and reached the street with quick, long strides. Trash, dilapidated house, and empty bottles littered the street and no cabs were to be seen. Sherlock growled, frustrated with his stupidity. Then he heard a creak and looked behind him. The apartment's door cracked open slightly. Finally. Sherlock thought. "Hello?" He turned and strolled towards the door. He heard an angry shout and something hit the door slamming it shut. Muffled but perfectly audible shouts reached Sherlock's ears.

"STUPID KID! WHAT THE HELL DO'YA THINK YOU'RE DOING! THOSE PROBABLY COPS OUT THERE! GET YOUR WORTHLESS ASS IN HERE!" Sherlock's ears perked up in curiosity at the American accent. He paused before knocking loudly on the heavy door. The shouts were instantly silenced. Shuffling could be heard.

"Open up. I know you're in there." Sherlock's deep voiced boomed authoritatively. More shuffling and then a loud groan as the door heaved open. A bald head with tufts of grey around the ears and thick bushy eyebrows shadowed dull nearly black eyes glared up at Sherlock. Sherlock forced back a laugh at the man who obviously was trying to intimidate him with his barely 5'4" of roundness. Sherlock kicked the door open and pumped past the man, noting everything in his surroundings.

"HEY! WHAD'YA THINK YOUR DOING!" The man's voice seemed stuck in a constant

shout. Although the room was littered with a number of worthless items, it was empty of other humans.

"There is someone else in here. Where are they?" The man trailed behind Sherlock as he swirled around them room, eyes flicking rapidly about as he searched for the other person.

"LOOK I DUNNO WHAT YOUR SAYIN BUT THIS IS MY HOUSE-" Sherlock turned to face the man, bending over him and just inches from his face.

"But is it? The name on the mail slot although worn clearly says 'Hilton' but your name is 'Watson'. It could be that you never replaced the name when you bought the house. However, you are using the 'Hilton's' things such as their piano engraved with their name which they would not have left if they moved out. Therefore, you are living with the Hiltons or living in their house. Considering you are drug dealer, Hilton must be your partner. Your things are strewn everywhere but even though there is much here, it's not enough for two people. Your partner is dead so you took over their house." The man's jaw slackened. "Yes, I know everything about you." An idea struck Sherlock. "I work for the government and we have been watching you for weeks. An American who moved to England after his operation was busted there." That was a shot in the dark but the fear that jumped into the man's eyes proved Sherlock right as usual. "Show me who you are hiding and I may not call the police and alert them to your location."

The man still in shock gaped. Sherlock sighed, exasperated at the reaction he always got after his deductions. Of course, Sherlock would alert the police after the man showed him where the child was hidden. "WELL?" Sherlock shouted, snapping the man out of his stupor. Shaking, he led Sherlock to a closet and trembled as he unlocked the door.

He yanked it open and bent over spit flying as he screamed, "GET OUT OF HERE KID!" Watson then yanked a small child out of the closet and threw him at Sherlock's feet. "HE'S WHO YOU'RE LOOKIN FOR!" The man grinned toothlessly as if this would shock Sherlock. Anger flooded Sherlock at the man's treatment to the child. He never had liked children, but felt strongly connected to this skinny, dirty haired boy lying limply at his feet. Without thinking, Sherlock dropped to his knees and scooped up the child who was much lighter than expected. The man's face became an alarming red and his eyes bulged. "YOU CAN'T WALK INTO THIS HOUSE AND TAKE MY CHILD!"

"No matter if you fathered this child, he is not yours if you treat him like this." With that,

Sherlock turned and left the apartment, shaking with anger. Sherlock was out on the street, shouts trailing behind him, holding a strange child, and with no idea where he was or where he was going. He almost ran to get out of earshot of the man too lazy to pursue him and changed his course into an alley way. He set down the child unsure of what else to do with him and called Lestrade.

"Hello?"

"Sherlock here. I'm on-" He ran to the end of the alley, scanning for a sign with the street's name. He located it. "Little Compton Street. I just found a house, house number 57, and the man, Watson, is a drug dealer." Papers shuffled. "Are you getting all this?"

"Uh, I th-"

"Good. I saw that he stored the drugs behind the only picture on the wall because of the

scrape marks showing it was often slid over. Common place to hide them. Quite obvious." Sherlock was pacing now. "He's an American and he'll be leaving shortly. He's short, grey, almost bald. The house he lives in is stolen from his accomplice who is most likely dead. I think I've heard the criminals name 'Hilton'."

"Yeah, he was killed a week ago."

"See you shortly." Sherlock paused and glanced at the child before hanging up. His full attention now was focused on the boy with his arms wrapped around his legs and chin tucked between them. Sherlock knelt before him and hesitantly lifted an arm to place on the boys shoulders. The boy closed his glazed eyes and seemed to brace himself. At first confused, Sherlock then realized the boy thought he was going to hit him. "I'm, uh-" He cleared his throat. "My names Sherlock. I'm not going to hurt you." He groaned inwardly at how pathetic that sound. His voice seemed gruff even to his own ears. "What's your name."

The boy opened his eyes. Sherlock was shocked at their emptiness and he felt an unfamiliar pang in his heart. The boy only stared at him, never moving from his position. Sherlock couldn't bear to look into those blank eyes any more so he stood and paced. Thoughts whirled about in his head, now the reality striking that he had just stolen a child and now must care for him. What did you do with children? Sherlock shuddered at the thought. He heard sirens and began headed in their direction. He stopped, remembering the child, and turned to see long hair streaming behind as the boy ran down the alley. Panic gripped Sherlock's heart and he took off after the boy a million possibilities flooding his mind at ways the he get hurt. Sherlock's concern surprised himself but he pushed that to the back of his mind. He quickly reached the child and swooped him up into his arms and only till the boy was pressed firmly against Sherlock's chest did he feel any relief.

The sirens were much louder now and Sherlock hurried to greet them. There was much commotion as Watson was arrested and taken away. Lestrade had ignored Sherlock until everything was figured out but the look of surprise when he saw Sherlock standing there holding a dirty child was utterly priceless. Sherlock gritted his teeth, willing away the embarrassment, and curtly said, "Would you be so kind to offer me a ride?"

"And your child?" Lestrade's eyes were teasing, the thought of Sherlock having a child being totally unrealistic. But Sherlock could not see Lestrade's amusement. He only offered a cold glare. Lestrade took the hint and cleared his throat.

"Where to, Mr. Holmes?" Lestrade smiled.

"The usual, Lestrade. 221B Baker Street."

-o-


	2. Chapter 2

Abruptly, Sherlock slammed the door of the police car, shifted the boy awkwardly in his arms, and marched up the two stairs leading to the door marked 221B. Before he could even begin searching his pocket for the key, the door flew open.

"Sherlock!" An older woman with short hair and a pleasantly wrinkled face greeted him. Sherlock instantly dumped the boy into the woman's arms who exclaimed in surprise. "Sherlock?" She gasped in shock.

"I had to rush out earlier, Mrs. Hudson, and I left in the midst of an experiment that is screaming for my attention. People think they can keep interrupting me. But, no, that will not do." He brushed past Mrs. Hudson still holding the boy. "Oh, and I found this boy who needs to be fed at least three weeks worth of food." By now he was halfway up the stairs. He paused and threw over his shoulder. "A bath wouldn't hurt either." He wrinkled his nose, and then took the remaining stairs in twos. The door on the second floor thudded shut, leaving Mrs. Hudson staring open mouthed. It took her only a moment to recover, and she shook herself as if trying to clear away the confusion Sherlock always seemed to leave her in.

"Oh, you poor thing!" She clucked at the boy. She hurried to the kitchen and set him down on the table and proceeded to bustle about, dishing out food. "Now what's your name, young man?" She turned, smiling sweetly and was met with a blank stare. She hesitated before continuing. "Well, I don't know where Sherlock found you if that's even true, but you most certainly need some of my splendid cooking." She laughed. "Sherlock wouldn't have any meat on his bones if it weren't for me." She returned to the boy with a steaming bowl of stew. "Now why don't you take a seat and eat this right up. Don't be too shy to ask for seconds." The boy did not move. Mrs. Hudson set the bowl down beside him fanning her fingers. "That's very hot!" Still no reaction.

She tried offering him the food to hold. She asked him if he wanted something different. Bread, cheese, and fruit began piling up on the table. She even resorted to spoon feeding him, but he turned away. After ten minutes of this, Mrs. Hudson was flushed and breathing a little heavier the normal. "Well, I guess you aren't hungry then." The boy blinked emotionlessly. "Let's see what a bath will do to your appearance." She exited the room and the thundering of water was heard moments later. She came out and gently picked the boy off the table. In the bathroom, she pulled of his threadbare clothes without a fight and set him into the steaming water. Humming, she poured in bubbles and soon the water was foaming around the boy's scrawny chest. He sat completely still as she scrubbed his hair and babbled about how he was going to be such a handsome young man and all the ladies would adore him.

Fifteen minutes and one much cleaner boy later, Mrs. Hudson was toweling dry his long, fluffy blonde hair, smiling with approval. "Oh, I don't seem to have any other clothes that will fit you," she remarked thoughtfully. "Let's see if we can steal something of Sherlock's." She guided the boy, who was once again wearing his own dirty clothes, up the stairs and knocked twice at the door. They heard a chair scrape and then the door was hurled open. Sherlock had a distant look in his eye and seemed irritated to be interrupted; however, Mrs. Hudson ignored his attitude and stepped into his flat with a purpose. Hissing was heard from Sherlock's desk, and he dashed back and started fanning at smoky fumes while holding his breath. Mrs. Hudson shook her head and directed the boy to Sherlock's room.

She closed the door behind them, leaving Sherlock to fend off the chemicals his experiment was producing. She searched through Sherlock's dresser which held only a few neatly followed shirts and pulled out a flannel that Sherlock never wore. She changed they boy into this and instructed him. "Now, you are going to sleep in Sherlock's bed. Don't worry he won't mind. He never sleeps here anyway. Always falling asleep over one of his bizarre experiments." She settled the boy into the bed. The walls of the bedroom were dark blue wallpaper but the wall behind the bed was an accent of off white. The boy settled his still damp head onto a pillow and his eyes began to droop. Mrs. Hudson smiled down at him and exited the room quietly.

Sherlock looked up in surprise obviously forgetting she had come in just a minute before. "What is going on?" He hopped up, ran to his room, and opened the door before Mrs. Hudson could protest. He gaped in shock then he remembered and with an "Oh" closed the door.

"Now, Sherlock, I know it's your own business, but I feel I have some responsibility in your life and now your child's. I don't need details, but I would like to know why you didn't not bring your child here earlier." Sherlock stood before her his confusion returning.

"Mrs. Hudson, I have no idea what you are saying." Mrs. Hudson raised an eyebrow and cleared her throat uncomfortably. "I found the child at a house where a drug dealer was."

"You are a twenty-one year old man. I completely understand why you would have a child."

"MRS. HUDSON! He is not my child! I foooouuund him." Sherlock's eyes were bugged out and his cheeks flushed in embarrassment. "I got a call. He was at the address. And I brought him home. Because-" Sherlock blinked. "Because..."

"It's alright," Mrs. Hudson patted Sherlock's arms. Sherlock shook his head and rubbed his temples and then turned and reached for his violin. "You can't play while the child is sleeping!" Mrs. Hudson stared at Sherlock with pure horror and snatched away his violin. Sherlock sputtered and then poutily stormed back to his chair.

"Wait a minute. That boy is in my bed! I do need to sleep, Mrs. Hudson, as surprising as that seems. It will not do to have his- his filthy body where I am supposed to be sleeping."

"Oh, stop you're grousing. You haven't used your bed since you moved here." Sherlock mumbled to himself as he returned to his microscope, and Mrs. Hudson left him to be alone, smiling proudly as the door clicked shut. Sherlock soon become lost in his work and the hours flew by. Not until he found himself waking, slumped over his desk, did he check the clock. The hands read 4:30 and the seconds clicked by, already beginning to usher in a new day. Groggily, Sherlock stood and headed towards his bedroom. At the door, he was awake enough to remember the boy and sighed. He stumbled back to his desk, turned out the lamp, and flopped onto the couch, long legs stretched over the arm rest, hand flung over his face. Sleep conquered him again.

-o-

Sherlock shifted his head and sunlight stung the back of his eyelids. Moaning, he rolled towards the back of the couch and curled up in a tighter ball, daring morning to wake him. Slowly, the heaviness in eyes subsided and his limbs became willing to work. He sighed, giving up on fighting off the day, and rolled onto his back, touching the tips of his fingers together. He stared off at the ceiling for quite some time until he realized he was being watched. Cautiously, he turned his head to his left and saw who was spying on him. Right in the center of the rug, a cross-legged, bed-headed boy sat, scrutinizing Sherlock.

Sherlock swallowed uncomfortably, twitching with awkwardness. He turned back to the ceiling and closed his eyes. When he took this pose with most people, they gave up on bothering him and let him be. He waited patiently for the boy to grow tired of watching him and run along and do whatever little boys were supposed to do. But a few minutes passed and he didn't hear the boy leave. He turned and looked at him again.

They look quickly changed into a staring contest. The boy didn't even budge. Squinting, Sherlock decided he'd had enough of this. He flung his feet in the air and hopped off the couch, a smooth move that he practiced much. "Hungry?" The boy didn't respond. "Me neither." As if on cue, a knock sounded at the door and Mrs. Hudson announced.

"I have breakfast for the boy!" Sherlock opened the door.

"Yes, he's not hungry." And closed it.

"Of course he is! Now let me in." Sherlock rolled his eyes, not liking one bit how he had no control over the situation, but opened the door anyway. "I didn't bring you anything, Sherlock, because I know you don't like breakfasts." Sherlock sniffed indignantly and snatched a piece of toast off the tray. "Put that right back. This is not for you." Sherlock again listened. Mrs. Hudson crouched down and sat the tray in front of the boy. "Good morning! It looks like you slept well." Sherlock fidgeted behind them and just barely caught the slight shadow of a smile on the boy's lips but it was gone too quickly to be certain.

"He's very talkative today. Couldn't shut him up." Mrs. Hudson glared up at Sherlock. The boy reached out and took a piece of toast, wide-eyes searching Mrs. Hudson for signs of approval. "He moves!" Sherlock feigned surprise and dodged the hand Mrs. Hudson swatted at his leg. He turned away from the scene and stepped over the coffee table near the couch and began running a finger down the row of old books on the shelf.

"Yes, go and eat all the toast and drink your tea. I'll be back in a bit to see if you want anymore." Because his back was turned, Sherlock lent Mrs. Hudson an eye roll. "And Sherlock no stealing his food. And I know you're rolling eyes." And with that Mrs. Hudson left the room.


	3. Chapter 3

The next few days passed in a blur. Sherlock was presented with a new case to solve, involving a dead man which made this case a particularly "juicy one" and excited Sherlock tremendously. He spent hours locked in his flat, pouring over books and police files, or would be gone until past midnight investigating. Sherlock had dropped the complete responsibility of the boy on Mrs. Hudson who didn't mind at all having someone to spoil and fawn over. The boy began smiling more but these rare smiles were reserved only for Mrs. Hudson.

Although Sherlock had explained thousands of times the story of how he found "the boy", Mrs. Hudson couldn't seem to grasp that this boy wasn't Sherlock's own child. She insisted they spend time together and would use the excuse of running an errand to leave the boy in Sherlock's care. Giving up fighting Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock allowed the boy to stay in his flat, confident he would remain quiet as he always did. At first, the way the boy carefully observed Sherlock's every moved unnerved him, but he adjusted quickly to the strange watchfulness and began talking aloud in the boy's presence, explaining his theories and the case, but not exactly talking directly to the boy.

Sherlock felt at ease with this strange boy. A connection. The boy seemed hesitant to relax around Sherlock unlike with Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock observed how each time he entered a room, the boy would straighten and focus his complete attention on Sherlock as if he expected Sherlock to need him for something. Sherlock could not pinpoint why the boy generated such a strange loyalty to him. He could only guess that the boy felt like he owed Sherlock for saving him from his father. And possibly Sherlock reminded the boy of the same man he had been saved from.

It was a typical London day with fog drifting down the streets and everyone's breath coming in clouds. Sherlock sprung from his seat, headed for the door, and began wrapping his scarf around his neck. The boy was sitting on the floor, flipping through a book that showed careful sketches of the human anatomy, a book Sherlock had found useful during forensic analyses. Molly Hooper, who worked in the morgue of St. Bartholomew's Hospital, had phoned, saying there had been an interesting development in the case and Sherlock should come to the hospital as soon as possible. Sherlock finished tying his scarf and pulled on his coat. He was about to rush out the door when he noticed the boy and felt he better tell Mrs. Hudson he was leaving so she would watch after the boy. So he didn't do anything stupid. Of course.

"Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock shouted, knowing Mrs. Hudson was probably just below him.

"Yes, Sherlock?" Her muffled reply came from below, just as he had suspected.

"Molly called. I'm going to the morgue."

"Who?"

"Molly!"

"You're taking Molly to the morgue?!"

"I'm meeting her at the morgue! To look at the dead body!"

"Who?"

"John!"

"Oh! You're taking John to see Molly at the Morgue!"

"No! John is dead. He is the dead body. At the morgue!"

"I don't think that's the best idea!" Sherlock heard Mrs. Hudson's moving towards the stairs, and he opened the door. She appeared at the foot of the stairs in a moment. "The morgue is no place for a child."

"This man isn't a child. He's well over forty."

"But I thought you were taking John there." Sherlock sighed.

"No. John is at the morgue."

"WHAT? Since when? How did he get there."

"We aren't certain what the cause of death is. Probably poison. That is why I am going there, to see."

"You don't even care that he's dead!"

"I didn't know him, Mrs. Hudson. It's my job to not care."

"But he was your son!"

"What?" Sherlock leaned forward, sure he had misheard.

"The boy! His name was John?"

"NO! I don't know the boy's name. But John is at the morgue and is dead." By now Mrs. Hudson was rushing up the stairs. She shoved past Sherlock and when she saw the boy sitting in the middle of the room, looking startled at Mrs. Hudson burst in, she clutched her chest and sighed in relief.

"John isn't dead." She turned on Sherlock and slapped him in the chest. "Don't go giving an old lady a fright like that. My heart can't handle this you know."

"John is not-" Sherlock closed his eyes, calming himself. He would deal with this later. More pressing matters called for his attention. "I'll be gone for awhile. Don't wait up."

"We won't, Sherly. Be careful! I'll make sure John goes to bed on time." But the front door had slammed already. Mrs. Hudson turned back to the boy. "John. What a splendid name. I wonder why he never told me before." She shrugged, having accepted long ago that she would never understand the enigma that was Sherlock.

-o-

The stairs leading up to Sherlock's flat were lit by a single lamp, casting an eerie glow in the still room. Unwrapping his scarf, Sherlock took the stairs in twos as he always did. When he reached the top, he noticed light under the crack of the door. He frowned and opened the door slowly. The room was totally silent. Sherlock stepped in, fully alert. A lamp by his armchair was on and huddled in the chair, covered by a blanket, slept the boy.

With relief, Sherlock dropped all precautions and shut the door. He set a folder of pictures from the crime scene on his desk, everything left just where he had scattered it. He hung up his outdoor clothes and noticed a tray of a tea on the table. He picked up a cup, now cold but drank anyway. He sighed, beginning to feel sleep tugging at his eyelids. Since the boy was sleeping here, maybe he would be able to use his own bed. The boy shifted in his sleep and his head dropped into an awkward position. Sherlock sighed in exasperation and bent over, scooping the boy into his arms, the book the boy had been reading dropping to the floor.

In only three weeks of living with Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson, the boy had already begun to fill out nicely and was much heavier than Sherlock remembered. Feeling the boy again in his arms, reminded him of the day when he had rescued this poor soul, and despite himself, Sherlock smiled into the blonde hair tickling his nose. He settled the boy in the bed, and before he left, tenderly touched the boy's face. His touched lingered for only a moment. _John._ He recoiled and left the room, taking his usual position on the couch and falling fast asleep.

-o-

"So she finds out he's cheating on her, and she thinks that by putting it out in the open that he'll get the sense knocked back into him and say sorry or whatever people do. Naturally, the most open you can get is through the internet. She tweets quote," Sherlock presented his phone to Lestrade and Molly. "I KNOW WHERE YOU ARE GOING IN THE NIGHT AND WHO YOU ARE SLEEPING WITH DICKHEAD." Sherlock winced and shoved his phone back in his pocket. "Hmm, nice. I'm sure that went well. Anyway. That was the most mild tweet of them all. She continues at this for a month or so and even dedicates a blog to stalking her husband and writing proof of his cheating. He doesn't notice her doing, or he just doesn't care. This infuriates her more. A poisoner searching for a new client sees the tweets and blog, contacts the angry woman, and sets up a time and place for the fatal event. Wife tries to "make up" with husband by taking him to a club for a drink, bartender turns out to be poisoner, slips in poison while husband is intoxicated, man dies. Case closed." Sherlock clapped his hand, the sound echoing off the bright white walls of the morgue. He turned, cocking his head expectantly at his companions.

Lestrade nodded slowly. "How do you know the bartender was the poisoner?"

"He wasn't. Well, he was but only for the night. Paid the real bartender to let him take over. Turns out the bartender wouldn't give up his bar, even just for a night, and managed to scrape out quite a sum from the poisoner. Flew the coop with the money to avoid cops."

"Who is the poisoner then?"

"Hmmm still a little unsure here. I believe he's a man called Alfred Van Zeircan or something like that. Covers his tracks well." Sherlock waved his hand. "That's where you come in Lestrade. Do your police research magic." Sherlock's work here was done. He found out the details of the case and Lestrade took care of catching the criminals and bringing them to justice. He left, the double doors slamming behind him, as Lestrade already began talking on the phone.

Outside, night was creeping in. Sherlock's steps echoed loudly on the deserted street. His brow wrinkled into a frown, and he stopped to wait for a cab. He heard shuffling behind him, and he turned around but saw no one. He decided it would be best to walk until he spotted a cab. As soon as he started to walk, he heard light footsteps behind him, but chose not to turn around and see who was following him. Instead, he continued to walk, quickening his long strides just enough to give him distance between him and his pursuer. The footsteps seemed to fall back and Sherlock turned the corner, providing the perfect opportunity to duck into an alleyway and wait for his stalker to show his face.

The wait was short. Only thirty seconds went by until Sherlock heard the footsteps again. Step. Step. Step. Louder. Louder. Louder. Ten more seconds. Sherlock sucked in a breath. Nine. He positioned himself. Eight. Almost time. Seven. They were getting louder. Six. So close. Five. Four. Three. Two. One. Then the steps stopped. Sherlock slowly let out his breath. He steeled himself, ready for attack, and lept out of the alley. And nearly tripped over the little boy standing there. The boy fell backwards, and Sherlock gaped down at him.

"John?" John scrambled to his feet and stared up at Sherlock, arms stiff at his sides. "Um, what are you doing?" John swallowed and remained quiet like usual. Sherlock ran a hand through his curls. "I should have expected this." He shook his head, and then grabbed the boy's hand. "Come along then." Sherlock walked with John until he a cab approached. He flagged it down, and they settled in for the drive. Sherlock wondered if he should attempt conversation but knew the b- John wouldn't respond. Besides Sherlock prefered silence.

The arrived back at the flat without any interesting events, and Sherlock instructed John to bed, who obeyed meekly. Once the bedroom door clicked shut, Sherlock sighed with relief knowing John was safe. Stupid child could have gotten kidnapped or something. Mrs. Hudson would have missed John if that happened.


End file.
